The Worst of All Possible Worlds

by Alex White

  “Yes, sir,” came the crew’s response.

  The captain nodded to Malik, ceding the floor. The doctor clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Miss Elsworth, you and the captain will proceed to the classified comms array and see what you can dig up about the Mostafa Journal’s recording location. Enlist a datamancer if you can. The Ferriers and I are going to hand off the data cube itself, along with our findings.”

  “And me, Mister Jan?” asked Aisha, not a hint of annoyance or humor at addressing her husband so formally. She was a lot more professional than Nilah would’ve been.

  “You’ll keep the ship hot.”

  Cordell added, “Hoping to get the location where the journal was recorded and get back on the trail. Witts is good at covering his tracks, and we have to keep going while they’re fresh.”

  Nilah raised her hand. “Maybe I can help with the transfer, Mister Jan? You know, in case they have questions about Baron Gaultier, or…”

  Malik shook his head. “You and Orna are to oversee all repairs and resupply to the Capricious. Given some of our past experience being in Taitutian government care, we want him scramble-ready at all times. Missus Jan will assist you.”

  Nilah swallowed. She wasn’t eager to ask for favors, but she’d be cross if she didn’t at least try. “Sir, I’d like to check on Sharp’s operation. This ship should be able to get some insight with its top-level classified access.”

  Cordell sighed. “Miss Brio, you’re only borrowing trouble. No matter what’s happening with Sharp, you can’t help.”

  Her pleading eyes met his. “Captain, you were willing to divert course to rescue my father. Surely it’s not too much to let me go speak with a case officer.”

  The captain tapped his chin as he mulled it over. “Miss Brio, you can come with us, but I expect you to be back on the Capricious within the cycle.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He pointed at her, eyes hard. “I’m not playing. Do not try to interfere in any way. You’ve got a job to do. Back here, on time. Boots, with me. The rest of you, I’ll see you after the handoff.”

  The two parties emerged into the stark lights of the Ambrosini’s docking bay. A lieutenant called to Cordell and Boots, leading them away from the platform in one direction, while the watch commander gestured to Malik, Jeannie, Alister, and Nilah. Before she could leave, Orna came bounding down the cargo ramp and gave her a quick kiss and a strong embrace.

  “For luck,” said the quartermaster, pulling away. “Go get your answers and come back ready to work.” A kind smile fit the quartermaster about as well as a smock, but she still put one on for Nilah.

  “You don’t have to pull a brave face for me, babes.” Nilah chuckled. “Gentle concern is a terrible look for you.”

  Orna smirked and chucked her on the shoulder, a lot harder than Nilah expected. “Check on Sharp, and quit being a witch.”

  “Ouch. Okay.” But it put a grin on Nilah’s face. “That’s more like it.”

  With a light pat on the butt, she added, “About to pull double duty because of you. Get out of here before I get pissed off.”

  “Okay, okay.” Nilah jogged to catch up to her party, which had already made a good deal of headway for the far exit.

  The watch commander nodded as she reached them. “It’s an honor to have you on board, Miss Brio,” she said, obviously small talk.

  “Thanks,” Nilah replied. “This is a pretty big ship.”

  “The TNS Ambrosini carries over ten thousand souls. He’s a city in the stars, complete with recreational outfits, dining areas, guest accommodations, and more.”

  “Impressive,” said Malik. “Must be a complex command structure around here.”

  “We make it work.” The commander gestured to a bustling corridor. “This way. We have such an abundance of facilities because the starfarers on this vessel spend two years away from home.”

  They passed a small, grassy park, complete with a biergarten, and Nilah was briefly reminded of the Masquerade, a station designed to house half as many residents in the same amount of space. She doubted the crew bunks on the Ambrosini would be as luxurious as those apartments.

  “How do you keep secrets with such a large crew?” asked Alister. “One mole in ten thousand, and the whole system is screwed.”

  They stepped into a lift, and the commander punched a button. “That’s the reason for the two-year crew rotation: we can create total isolation. Outbound comms are thoroughly monitored by AI and humans in the loop. If someone is giving away our fleet movements, we’ll hear it.”

  From there, it was a train ride, a tram ride, and a long walk to the military intelligence division. The commander stopped in front of an office labeled SPECIAL BRANCH AFFAIRS LIAISON.

  “Miss Brio, this is you,” said the commander. “An escort will bring you to the rear admiral’s office when you’re done.”

  “Thank you,” said Nilah, letting herself inside.

  The rooms beyond were dimly lit, with data screens strewn about, hovering in the air. Whoever worked here liked it messy. Nilah looked about for a reception area, or a greeter, but found no one.

  “Jackson,” came a man’s voice over the speakers, “you have a visitor.”

  “It’s not on my calendar, Collin, so tell them to go away,” came a call from one of the back rooms.

  An imager in the ceiling swiveled to focus on Nilah. “I think it’s someone important,” said the disembodied voice, probably an AI.

  “If that’s you, Major Eames, I told you to make appointments!” came the shout. “We’re the Special Branch, not your Special Boyfriend!”

  Nilah frowned. She couldn’t imagine Agent Weathers being so unprofessional, nor any member of the Special Branch for that matter.

  “Based on facial geometry and recent STC chatter,” said Collin, “it appears to be Compass operative Nilah Brio.”

  A set of quick footsteps brought a heavyset fellow to the door frame, his brow beaded with sweat. His entire face lit up with affected delight as he made eye contact. “Hello!” he sang, taking the word out a beat longer than required. “Miss Brio, such a pleasure! What in the blazes brings you down to the dungeon? Wait, don’t answer that just yet. Collin, get us some tea!”

  “Taitutian Royal Pearl if you have it,” said Nilah, unimpressed, though she held out her hand for the clammy fellow to shake it. “Nilah Brio.”

  “Jackson Wilkinson, Special Branch liaison and case officer for the Ambrosini. I’m so terribly sorry about the mess. Hadn’t expected company. So busy, you know, so busy.” He shook her hand like a martini, and she removed it from his overeager grasp.

  “Charmed.”

  He adjusted his ill-fitting suit and tie as though that would help his appearance, then dabbed at his brow. “What, ah… what brings you to us today?”

  “‘Us’?” she repeated, looking around for others.

  “Well, it’s just me and Collin at the moment, but we’ve office space for ten people. ‘Ten souls,’ as they like to say in the overdramatic fleet speak. If you’d like a tour—”

  “I wouldn’t,” she said. “Busy, you understand. What’s the status on my father’s rescue operation?”

  Jackson chewed his lip, giving her an expectant look. “I wasn’t the caseworker, so I’m quite sure I don’t know. Maybe if you’d like to check back in an hour…”

  “No, Agent Wilkinson,” said Nilah. “Let’s just get this sorted so I can be on my merry way.”

  He gave her a taut smile. “Yes. Quite merry. It’s just… I’m not sure that your observation of an active mission is—”

  “I have Compass clearance. I’m invoking it.”

  The big man looked at her sidelong. “Over a personal matter?”

  “Perks of the job, mate.”

  “I’ll need to check in with—”

  “No, you won’t.” Ice settled in the pit of her stomach. “Why are you stalling?”

  “Miss Brio, I’m not sure I’m qualified to
—”

  She stepped closer, but she was a few inches shorter than the agent. He nevertheless recoiled; he must’ve heard of her martial prowess.

  “Why are you stalling?” she repeated.

  The man’s shoulders slumped, and he settled like a Norlan soufflé. His brows knit together and his cheeks puffed as he searched for words. Every second of stammering from him exponentially ramped Nilah’s anxiety until her dermaluxes suffused the room with violet light.

  “What… is the status of Sharp’s mission?” She stepped so close that she could smell the garlic of a recent lunch on his breath, and he swallowed.

  “As you know, the exact dates and times of missions are a—a range, and, uh, well… it’s already happened.”

  She shook her head like she’d just been splashed with cold water. “The hell it has. They would’ve told me. They would’ve called. Do you really expect me to believe…”

  The truth began to resolve in her mind, dreadful, looming. If the operation had already happened, why hadn’t she heard the result? Why would they have kept her in the dark, unless—

  Unless they wanted to inform her in a more delicate, measured capacity, because the news was tragic.

  “Miss Brio, I—” he said. “The mission was a failure.”

  The mission was a failure.

  Those five words rolled over her, washing from her skin without sinking in.

  Her right eye began to twitch, and she rubbed it with a tight fist until she saw stars. “I thought you didn’t know. You… you said you didn’t know.”

  “All members of the Special Branch with top clearance were watching, including the prime minister,” he said. “This mission was of the highest import to us, and—”

  The toad of a man took gulping breaths, and it taxed Nilah’s restraint not to box his neck. The purple of her arms shifted through red into the orange, like smoldering coals.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He approximated some version of sympathy that might’ve worked on a doe-eyed widow, but it only further enflamed her rage. “I was watching the mission feed myself. No one wanted to see justice dealt more than us—”

  “Really, mate? No one?”

  “Poor choice of words, my dear. Please understand that—”

  “Collin,” said Nilah, “play back the end of the mission feed, Compass authorization Nilah Brio Tango-Six-Eight-Four-Seven-Alpha.”

  A chime struck. “Acknowledged, Nilah Brio. Commencing playback.”

  Projections spun from the walls and ceiling to coat the room in a mountainous landscape. Iron-rich red sands spread before Nilah, and Sharp appeared alongside two shooters, each with a sniper engine. The guns were pointed at the sky like a pair of mortars, aimed at some target far beyond the snowcapped peaks. A drapery of optical camouflage hung before them, translucent through the back but fully obscuring them from the front.

  “Forward observer reports positive ID on Harriet Fulsom,” said Sharp. “Stand by to execute.”

  A small projector relayed the contents of a long-range imager: a net-covered compound with a few fliers and a small shuttle. Five people stood near the shuttle, conversing, and Nilah gasped at the sight of her father, a small silhouette bound and supine nearby in the dirt.

  “Spotter,” said Sharp, “confirm ready.”

  “Black Fox confirms,” came the radio chatter. “We are a go for strike.”

  Sharp nodded. “Let’s earn that hazard pay. Execute.”

  The two snipers traced their fatalist’s marks, focusing intently on the projection, and fired. A pair of thumps filled the air as the sniper engines sent two regraded steel spikes hurtling into the cloudless skies. Harriet Fulsom winked out of the projection, leaving only the afterimage of a massive porter’s mark.

  “I’ve lost eyes on the target!” said the spotter. Slinger fire crackled across her comm, along with her choked scream.

  “Black Fox, come in!” called Sharp. “Spotter, report!”

  No response came.

  Sharp pounded the dirt with a fist. “Damn it!”

  A porter’s mark lit the hillside, and Harriet Fulsom appeared in their midst, slingers flaming. She riddled the nearest sniper with holes before vanishing once more. Only the smoky ligatures of her glyph remained, drifting away on the wind.

  One of the snipers whipped out a slinger pistol, tracing his fatalist’s mark once more. Harriet appeared behind him, casually placing her weapon to his head and adding his blood to the sand. Nilah knew where this was going when Harriet disappeared once again, narrowly avoiding Sharp’s barrage of lance rounds. He traced his sigil and the earth rose around him, shielding his back, but it didn’t matter. Harriet flashed three more times, finally coming to rest beside him, and planted a slinger bolt through his lungs.

  His once-strong hands shaking with rage, Sharp reached for her foot. She put a round through his face.

  Surveying the bloody camp, Harriet’s eyes landed upon the imager. She walked over to the lens, growing larger with each stride until she could crouch beside it. Harriet turned and looked over the scene like she was checking the framing to ensure everything was clear.

  “I think you should stop the playback, Miss Brio,” whispered Jackson, but Nilah placed her fingers over his lips to silence him.

  Harriet gave the lens a hateful scowl, a face Nilah had never seen in the woman’s days as Claire Asby. “Dear Nilah Brio, I send you terms of exchange… and you send assassins.”

  “Collin, pause,” Jackson’s voice quaked.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Wilkinson,” said Collin, “but the ranking operative has expressed an implicit interest in continuing.”

  Harriet brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, shaking her head. “I was absolutely planning to kill you and all of your friends, but your father would’ve survived the ordeal. He would’ve remembered his daughter the hero, but now…”

  Blood beat in Nilah’s eardrums at the breakneck speed of her heart.

  Harriet vanished, two seconds passed, and she reappeared, yanking Darnell Brio into view by his bloodstained collar. He’d been repeatedly assaulted, and sweat glistened across his dark brow. Calcifoam manacles locked his fingers into place, not that Darnell’s magic would’ve helped. He was a simple conjurer, and cheap trinkets wouldn’t extricate him from her hold.

  “My daughter is dead, and you didn’t care enough about your father to save him,” said Harriet, speaking to the imager. “You know me. I would’ve kept my word. I didn’t have to do this.”

  Nilah drew close to her father’s projection, and she longed to lay a hand across his cheek. “Don’t… Please.”

  Harriet bared her teeth. “But it’s going to feel so good.”

  She placed her hand to the back of Darnell’s head, tracing the porter’s mark with her other. She could’ve cast instantly like the other gods, but she wanted to stretch it out—make it last as long as possible. Harriet held out her hand, as if to catch drops of rain.

  A gossamer spiderweb of red-tinged tissue appeared in her palm, and Darnell’s eyes rolled back in his head. Nilah screamed as her father began to convulse. Harriet hurled him against the packed earth, where his breath stirred the dust.

  “I’ve always been a precise caster, and this,” said Harriet, holding the viscous pile aloft, “is the myelin sheath from every nerve in his head. I can’t imagine the sort of pain he must be feeling as his brain short-circuits.”

  She flicked the gore aside and cast once more. Another small chunk of Darnell’s brain matter appeared in her hand. “This is the nerve bundle that enables him to go into shock. How are you feeling, Mister Brio? Is it enough to drive you insane?”

  Nilah collapsed, crying out for her to stop, and a dark part of her heart hoped that Harriet would simply end it. Her father couldn’t scream—he couldn’t even manage the wherewithal to breathe as he gaped wordlessly in the dirt.

  “Look at him, Nilah,” Harriet hissed. “This is your future!”

  The whole worl
d shook as she picked up the imager and said, “Wherever you are, you had better find the nearest airlock and jump out of it, because I’m coming for you.”

  Another flash and she was gone.

  It took Darnell Brio five long minutes to die while Nilah waited by his side, a universe away.

  Nilah stumbled from the Special Branch liaison’s office in a shock. She briefly remembered Jackson Wilkinson touching her to stop her from leaving.

  Her knuckles stung for some reason. Maybe she’d decked him.

  The corridor pitched before her like a long mine shaft, a bottomless pit of starfarers rushing up and down, ferrying intelligence and cargo she could not care about.

  “Miss Brio!” someone called to her, but if they didn’t know her well enough to use her first name, they could sod right off. She gave them a vulgar gesture to expedite their understanding.

  “Miss Brio, you will stop now.” This time, the voice was more forceful, followed by a metallic clink that sounded a lot like a trip stick extending.

  She turned to find a chunky military police officer, his mustache frosted by middle age—basically just a red-faced lump of tactical gear.

  “We’ve had a report of an assault. You’re coming with us, and I’d like that to happen peacefully.”

  She looked over his pathetic posture with reddened eyes. “Compass. Can’t touch me.”

  “That’ll take some time to sort out,” said the cop, drawing a pair of calcifoam manacles as he approached. “I’ve got her,” he said, comm flashing in his ear.

  A series of flashes and some flawless footwork later, and he was on the ground, clutching a bloody nose and shouting for her to stop. She didn’t run. She looked at him, wondering exactly what she’d done.

  Every nerve in her body was raw after what she’d seen. She didn’t want to be touched, and she’d made herself clear.